Most of the ladies were sorting through Christmas decorations. Tonight, after closing time, the shop window is being dressed in time for the first yuletide event - a wine and cheese tasting next Friday evening. Flyers and emails have already gone out regarding ordering Christmas trees, pheasant, turkey, fresh vegetables and bakery items. Christmas cards designed, photographed or painted by local artists are piled on the front counter. A festive air is starting to permeate and talk now frequently revolves around planning for Christmas.
After Jan cleared herself and the stuffed Christmas bears from our table - which she was re-pricing as they hadn't sold in previous years - Marie sidled over and leaned across in a conspiratorial manner.
"I've got a secret place for you to go to, if you're interested," she hissed.
Our ears pricked up.
"There are boars and beavers there, but no one knows about it. I can give you directions."
We gulped down our tea, jumped into the car, and headed for Tullymurdoch. We listened closely to instructions to head towards the Glenshee road, over the windy back road past the windmill farm, a left turn - or was it right? - to a narrow walking trail, beyond the derelict farm, follow the red heart, oops! Sorry, I can't give you any more clues than that because the location, as Marie emphasised to us, must remain top secret.
Because of the torrential rain of recent weeks, the tracks we drove down were mostly potholed or virtually washed away. We suffered a few false starts, had difficulty remembering the directions and nearly got bogged in a field, before rounding a bend to be confronted by the discombobulating sight of an Asda supermarket home delivery truck blocking the lane. But even in this remote rural location people have to eat, and as the cottage owner was sorting her shopping, we quickly hijacked her for help to find the boars and beavers.
She was highly amused that we had not recognised the obvious beaver activity or the boar pens which apparently are easily recognised - but not to us townies! Standing barefoot at her front door, she explained where to go but warned us that the boars were dangerous, would probably think we were there to feed them and no account to go into their pen, not least because we would find ourselves thigh-high in mud.
With trepidation we squelched through puddles and mud and peered over the boar pens into the murky, muddy, spooky wood that is their habitat:
Not a boar to be seen, which I for one was quite grateful about. Beaver-stalking seemed a far more benign activity.
Beavers, as it turns out, are very noisy. This is because their work involves chewing into tree trunks and spitting the wood chips out. When we arrived at the beaver dam it was ominously quiet. We crept along the walking trail, but not a beaver to be seen. However, there was plenty of evidence of their presence:
I think I MAY have seen the back end of a beaver dart into its burrow but the air remained still, not even a bird call. We decided they must be on lunch break - all that gnawing having exhausted their jaws and also left them hungry for something more edifying to eat. Or perhaps they were beavering away underwater trying to get their homes built or renovated before Christmas. Whatever the reason, finally, we gave up our vigil.
When I got back to the cottage, after googling 'beaver habits', the reason for their mystifying absence became clear as apparently in winter beavers generally only leave their lodges to feed from stored food supplies. During this time, they live in constant darkness and lose track of time. Which sounds remarkedly like my GenY son, Will, who also lives a nocturnal lifestyle, much of it asleep, and often forgets to turn up at the appointed hour.
No comments:
Post a Comment